Monday, December 31, 2012

grieve


I would do it;
but the finality of it all
stands in the way;
the uncertainty;
the hesitation;
sometimes I think,
this is the way it should be,
all the time;
beyond feeling,
beyond caring,
beyond knowing,
beyond rewrites and
perfection,
beyond judgment,
beyond misery,
beyond the charades,
beyond the lies,
beyond self-delusion;
beyond love and fantasies,
beyond wondering and doubt;
beyond self;
every denial demands
atonement,
every question requires
an answer,
for every gift
there is a price,
for everything worth having
there is a cost;
I wish it were not so,
I wish there was another way.

Madness rules,
darkness lights the way,
You are all that is left
at the end of the day,
there are things
bigger than ourselves,
beyond thinking or reason,
there are things that
matter most,
there are things that define
who we are,
the miles go by,
the years pass,
the end is near;
soon enough,
soon enough.

This poverty has
another face,
another kind of soul,
quiet and alone,
frightened and confused,
suicide can be so blind,
nothing more than
a whisper,
spitting and sputtering,
laughing and pretending;
you cannot love anyone,
until you have learned
to grieve for everyone.
.
.

Home


Sitting in this greasy,
all night, Michigan redneck, café,
sipping on dark stale coffee,
listening to the local philosophers
as they eat their breakfast,
on their way to dry-walling and other
assorted craft jobs,
indoors of course (getting to cold for outside work),
discussing the beating death
of a Wyoming fag (their word),
and how the poor ole boys who did it
will never get a fair trial,
what with all the negative publicity,
and what is this world coming too
when you can’t even bash a few fags around
and get away with it,
after all, they was just having a little fun,
they didn’t actually mean to
kill the little fucker (chuckles all around).

While listening the thought occurs,
that with just a different twist of fate,
I could be sitting at that table,
with all the other small town know-it-alls,
discussing world politics and Wyoming fags,
and it is only now that I realize
I don’t belong here anymore,
just as the swamplands and muskrats
of south jersey do not belong here,
this place I once called home
has become just another town
full of strangers and family
I no longer know,
nor care too;
this place leaves me feeling
so empty and impotent.

I think of my wife,
the woman who has been with me
for more years than I once lived in this place,
the woman whose touch still electrifies me,
the woman who has become my one constant,
my only reality,
the one thing I can depend on,
together we have built a new home,
free from family or friends interference,
she is where I belong;
she is my home.

Friday, December 14, 2012

Innocent Passage


And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them, And said, "Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven. And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me. But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea."   Matthew 18:2-6

"Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones; for I say unto you, That in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in heaven." Matthew 18:10

Hear the song of the morning dove
my precious child,
calling out across the empty fields,
leading you back
to the land
of fairy tales and dreams,
where your soul shall know
kindness and sweetness
once more;
do not weep
my beautiful little flower,
for surely it is an
innocent passage
into this shining kingdom,
where angels softly sing,
cradling you gently
in their protective arms,
wiping away your tears,
a place where the darkness
of this world,
shall cross your face
no more.
.
.

Saturday, December 8, 2012

holding on


We hold on
to moments;
seconds,
minutes,
hours,
days,
years;
we hold on
to forever.

The light burns low,
dignity all that is left,
love the final offering;
in the end
triumphing over all.
.
.

Power


For the kingdom of God is not in word, but in power. I Corinthians 4:20 (KJV)
For the kingdom of God is not a matter of talk but of power. I Corinthians 4:20 (NIV)
For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. 1 Corinthians 13:12
Your power is beyond all
that this world can comprehend,
like a philosophy or psychology
we try to minimize who You really are,
sweeping You under man-made rugs,
placing You inside man-made boxes,
trying to restrain You with man-made
laws and traditions,
never understanding,
never knowing,
never able to fully acknowledge,
that everything we are,
everything we know,
exists only by Your
unfathomable mercy and grace,
through the unlimited power
of Your Word alone,
that every breath taken is a gift,
which can never be repaid;
through Your power
I am given a taste of a world
free from sin,
a world of love and hope,
stripped of all its suffering and fear;
without hate,
without lust,
without greed;
through Your power
I begin to understand,
through the Holy Spirit
I start to see,
a world which my mind
cannot fully grasp,
an indescribable place
prepared from the beginning
for those who love You,
a world that leaves me humbled,
perfect and pure,
beyond words,
without compare,
a world where I can only
fall down before You
and whisper;
my Lord,
my Master,
my King;
my Everything.
.

.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

dreams


Who is right and
who is wrong?
I am like a beached whale;
struggling,
turning,
pulsing,
heaving,
fighting,
rolling,
rising,
falling;
and who is right
and who is wrong?

The silence remains,
undisguised,
unspoken,
forgotten,
hiding behind
darkened windows,
shadows within the
night,
silky smooth,
hot and bothered,
passionately pure,
blends of this,
shades of that,
pieces of the
unfinished puzzle,
none of it real,
none of it genuine,
none of it true;
who is right and
who is wrong?

Within these walls
are many tales,
much laughter,
rivers of sorrow,
oceans of tears,
pools of sadness,
victims drowning
within their own blood;
we are all right,
we are all wrong;
winners and losers,
fighters and failures,
lovers and haters,
innocent and guilty,
doomed and redeemed;
together;
this is all there is,
this is all we have.

I cannot dream
what I do not know,
I cannot know
what I do not dream.

Friday, November 16, 2012

now it begins


When he opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven for about half an hour.
                                                                                                            Revelations 8:1
 night does approach,
dreams do fade,
silence awaits,
time no more;
now it begins.

love fades,
hypocrisy rises,
iniquity abounds,
self-proclaimed children of light,
fingers of judgment,
objects of wrath,
calm,
cool,
arrogant;
no mourning,
no shame,
no remorse,
sitting as a queen;
in one day her plagues
will overtake her.
.
.

Stolen Ground


I have tasted heights so high,
I have swam depths so deep,
touching things along the way
which were never mine to keep,
traveling beyond all there
was to know,
yet still there is more,
so much more to go;
confusion and sorrow color
these early morning skies,
answers lie hidden
among alternatives and
cascading lies,
places once called home
crumble into the far-off fading light,
faces once called friends
disappear into the approaching black
of this forever growing night;
take my hand,
lead me from this land,
hear my voice,
help me make a stand;
darkness grows above,
storms rise from below,
over-fed pretenders
prepare for the final show,
in this never ending battle
which can never be won,
raging just beyond
all that can be overcome;
into the nighttime void a
whisper does sound,
shadows of tomorrow looming large
across this stolen ground,
mistakes of yesterday forever lost,
innocent blood shed,
freedom at such a staggering cost;
take my hand,
lead me from this land,
hear my voice,
help me make a stand.
.
.

War


Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.                                                                                     Ephesians 6:10-12

All around the battle rages,
the enemy silently waits,
unseen, unknown,
beyond sight,
beyond touch;
beyond understanding;
slaves to all that we see,
all that we hear,
all that we feel;
yet we see nothing,
we hear nothing,
we feel nothing;
mirrors and smoking guns,
illusions and disappearing truths,
cheap parlor tricks played out
on morning talk shows,
here today,
gone tomorrow,
the war never ends;
the enemy never sleeps.
.
.

The Only Way Out


“The man who loves his life will lose it, while the man who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life.” John 12:25

Jesus answered, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” John 14:6

I am tired,
really tired;
tired of fighting to
prove my worth,
tired of trying to be
something I will never be,
tired of caring what
the world thinks of me,
tired of being afraid,
tired of wondering what
tomorrow might bring,
tired of being a slave,
tired of the fantasies
and illusions most live under,
tired of listening to the
self-righteous, stick your head
in the sand, I’m ok,
you’re ok, look at me,
aren’t I special, individuals
who think that this world,
and the people in it
are basically good;
because they’re not;
human history
has proven that
over and over again;
this world was broke
a long time ago, and
there is only One Way
it will ever be fixed,
it will take a power
far beyond anything
this world will ever
possess.

Truth?
real truth does not
change,
it never has,
it never will,
it is absolute,
it is irrevocable
it is final,
it is beyond human
comprehension or thought,
it is a rock upon which
all who fall will be broken,
and all upon whom it falls
will be crushed,
only man-made truth
changes with the wind,
bouncing from one
theory to another,
one self-created god
to the next;
what sad, pathetic fools
we truly are,
created with so much
potential,
yet settling for so much
less,
selling out for a few brief
moments of pleasure,
caving in to fears and desires,
trading truth for myth,
light for darkness;
life for death.

Amidst the fear and decay
there remains One hope,
a light set upon a hill,
an escape,
a reprieve,
a small, still voice in the
cold, dark night,
do not harden your heart;
do not turn away from the only
way out of this life.

Patriotism


I am the LORD, and there is none else, there is no God beside me: I girded thee, though thou hast not known me: That they may know from the rising of the sun, and from the west, that there is none beside me. I am the LORD, and there is none else. I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil: I the LORD do all these things. Isaiah 45:5-7 (KJV)
This know also, that in the last days perilous times shall come. For men shall be lovers of their own selves, covetous, boasters, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy, Without natural affection, trucebreakers, false accusers, incontinent, fierce, despisers of those that are good, traitors, heady, highminded, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God; Having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof: from such turn away. II Timothy 3:1-5 (KJV)
Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. Proverbs 3:5 (KJV)

Once again the storm begins to build,
the raging winds start to blow,
through the chaos and darkness
You stand like a shining
light upon a hill,
a mighty rock which can never
be moved,
a haven in which to take shelter;
a small, still voice within
the howling madness.

Trapped within their fear,
running from their mortality,
they see
but they are blind,
they hear
but they are deaf,
You are so much more than
psychology or philosophical babble,
so far beyond political agendas or
simple human persuasion;
denying the sovereignty,
demeaning the righteousness,
twisting the truth;
failing to grasp the power.
.
.

Ready


I don’t write a lot anymore,
it’s not that I can’t,
it’s just that there isn’t
much left to say,
I have been to the dark edge,
I have seen the other side,
I have known the lies,
I have known the truth,
I have felt the light,
I am ready for the end
I am ready for the night;
I am ready to begin.

I have been blessed in ways
which words can never describe,
there is nothing that I desire,
there is nothing that I want,
everyday is a gift,
every minute a miracle,
every breath a reprieve,
this body continues to struggle,
but it is only temporary,
a slight inconvenience,
a momentary delay,
it will fade like
the evening sun,
all that will be left is love;
all that will be left is You.

You have made this possible,
You have brought me to this place
I could never find by myself,
You continue to stand by my side
when death is all I deserve,
You continue loving me when I
can’t even love myself;
You are my King,
You are my Lord,
You are my Everything.
.
.

Saturday Morning Biscuits


The day begins with biscuits,
sausage and egg,
bacon egg and cheese,
it has become Saturday
morning ritual,
part of the routine.

Looking up,
the mountains call,
standing like ancient sentinels,
whispering like lovers
in the fading, forgotten mist,
beckoning you to travel
along their hidden trails,
a secret society,
a forbidden mystery,
but the growing pain
within your gut
says not today;
perhaps never again.

Below the James
gurgles and flows,
steady and rhythmic,
the frogs creak,
the daffodils bloom,
another spring awaits.

You think about
the people and places
you have known,
you wonder within;
does a lifetime of
mediocrity and underachievement,
lessen a moment of greatness?
does not light shine
through the darkness no matter
where or when it shines?
do careless words speak forever?
.
.

What Cost?


Your humanity,
your life,
your soul;
what cost this freedom?

Broken bodies,
broken promises,
broken lives,
broken dreams;
what price to be
a man?

Life is but moments,
moments of laughter,
moments of joy,
moments of sorrow,
moments of suffering,
every minute a struggle,
every second another
missed opportunity;
in the end they fade.

I wish I could
have been better;
a better father,
a better husband,
a better brother,
a better son,
a better friend;
that somehow
I could have been
more than what
I was.

For now we say goodbye,
yet still it does
not end,
this too is just
another moment;
fading like the evening sun.
.
.

The Hunger


The hunger gnaws;
this sickness,
this disease;
quickly trying
to catch the night,
before it flees
back from whence
it came.

Far off,
the lightning flashes,
the thunder rumbles,
shadows quietly slip away,
memories return like
messengers from the deep,
sending lesser men
packing;
then it is done,
as if it never
happened at all.

There are places
in this life
where no man goes,
hidden valleys
and lonesome ridges,
far beyond the imagination
and dreams,
it is here
that refuge is found,
a haven among the lost,
a resting place
within the storm;
out here
there are no promises,
no guarantees;
only silent desperation
and stolen expectations.

.

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Better Left Unsaid


There are many things I could
say to you,
there was a moment,
in the fading sunlight
of a quiet summer day,
an inner softness revealed,
beauty not seen from the outside,
unguarded, unexpected,
private,
just a passing touch;
but it was enough.

In a different time,
a different place,
another life,
things might have been
very different,
but the time is now,
the place is here,
the life is already lived,
but still,
there will always
be that moment;
some things are better
left unsaid
When you walk into my mind
the sparks begin anew,
there is a hunger
for everything that is you,
I want to feel you
from the inside out,
I want to pour out
everything that I am,
I want to explode within you,
I want to be possessed by you,
I want to tell you all that I feel,
but;
some things are better
left unsaid.
.
.

not enough


what else can I say?
what else can I do?
what else is there?
you are inside;
like blood,
like bones,
like snot,
like cum;
you move with
the wind,
swaying on
the breeze,
rising and falling
like the tide;
not enough;
living,
dying,
eating,
dreaming,
crying,
speaking,
writing,
spiting,
fucking;
not enough;
not enough;
I breathe you like
oxygen,
I want you like
tomorrow,
I hide you like
a secret,
I whisper your name
like an ancient society,
I consume you like
a pear;
not enough,
not enough;
I love you.
.
.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Thanks Hank


The squirrels become playful in September,
running to and fro,
chasing each other up and down trees
and telephone poles;
it makes me wonder what they know
that I don’t.

They drive Petey,
my Jack Russell terrier bonkers,
he whines and pulls at his leash,
dying to sink his sharp little teeth
into fresh killed squirrel hide;
life is easy in September.

I have been recovering from spinal surgery
for almost two months now,
I’ve learned if I sit very still
the pain running down my leg isn’t so bad,
I thought the pain would be gone by now
but I guess it is not to be,
sometimes I think it is for the best,
we need a little pain in life
to keep it all in perspective,
a gentle reminder,
a little thorn in the flesh
as the apostle Paul would say.

I picked up another Bukowski book the other day,
it was the first time in years,
I read one called ’35 seconds’ in the store
and it made me laugh out loud,
so I bought it;
“and that’s how
I hurt my
arm” – 35 Seconds, Charles Bukowski;
I guess you had to be there
to really get it,
he truly was a literary genius,
despite what the main stream
poetry world might think,
you have to read him very closely
to understand the depth of his pain,
and you have to read him even closer
to grasp the inner humor
that carried him through it,
most never get that close,
for most it is more
than they can bear,
they want their poetry
just like they want their life,
clean and sterile,
full of fantasy and fluff,
fresh from the minds
of those who never venture
outside their keyboards,
with freshly printed MFA degrees
hanging on the ‘studio’ wall,
minimizing and dismissing
anything that is uncomfortable
or real, calling it sloppy,
searching for technical and grammatical
correctness within words that are
empty and dead,
of course they don’t see it this way,
they would tell you just the opposite,
but their words give them away;
thank goodness he lived it for us
so we wouldn’t have to.
As I read him,
I wondered if he ever got the chance
to know the Lord,
not the one pushed by religion
or other man-made institutions,
but the real One,
the One who heals,
the One who saves,
the One who forgives,
the One who softly whispers
in the middle of the night:
“Don’t be afraid, just believe.”
the friend who sticks closer
than a brother,
my King,
my Everything.

I feel I know him well enough
(Bukowski that is),
that if he ever had the opportunity
like I did,
he would have seen the truth,
he would have understood the message,
his eyes would have been blind no more,
but I guess I’ll never know.

I think about how nice it would be
when I finally do enter the world
prepared for those who belong to the Lord
if I saw him there,
his dead pan, unassuming face,
quietly watching,
silently observing,
finally at peace;
completely healed;

how great it would be
if I could thank him
for exploring the parts
of the darkness I never could,
the parts that I probably never would
have survived,
the parts that would have destroyed me
forever,
then for writing it all down
so I  didn"t have to,
for helping me along this journey
when no one else could;

“Thanks Hank.”
.
.

The Great American Dream


The great American dream;
open roads,
rest stops,
all night diners,
cb radios,
tractor trailers,
Harley Davidson motorcycles;
freedom;
when the reality is 15 year old RVs,
cruising the open road
two weeks out of every year,
maxed out credit cards,
dressing up like outlaw bikers
in Daytona and Myrtle Beach,
playing the slots in Las Vegas;
pretending the hypocrisy
and compromise
doesn’t exist.

The great American dream is a myth,
an urban legend,
a fantasy existing within the minds
of Madison Avenue ad executives,
a pipe dream bought and paid for by Nike,
a nightmare
designed to trap its victims
into a new kind of slavery,
the modern poor,
the new third world,
the great American dream belongs
to hedge fund managers
and the Bank of America,
the great American dream
died before it ever had a chance
to live;
the great American dream
is a lie.
.
.


Wednesday, November 7, 2012

An Uneasy Interruption


In the end
I will fade away
like the early morning dawn,
quietly changing from darkness
into light,
without a sound,
without a fight,
a passing whisper
in the middle of the
dark, crisp night;
we all do,
we all will,
we simply have
little choice;

words will mean very little,
relationships even less,
memories but a brief moment,
an uneasy interruption,
a passing vapor
in a world of swirling mist.

I have been to the mountaintop,
I have peered into the oblivion below,
I have heard the small still voice,
I have known the touch
of His calm, cool hand;
words will never be enough.
.
.

Monday, November 5, 2012

My Home


We hide inside our houses,
dreaming of the tomorrows,
imagining the possibilities,
running from the darkness,
mystified by the mystery,
trapped within the illusion,
waiting for the destination;
forever seeing,
but never knowing;
forever hearing,
but never understanding;
if it were up to me
I would stay in this place,
seeking shelter from the storm,
swallowed up by the myth,
drowning in the depths,
growing cold from the emptiness,
guarding Your truth
like a rare and precious jewel,
but Your grace knows better;
Your will demands more;
I am searching for my home,
but I don’t know how to get there,
so I quietly wait in the wilderness,
running from the ghosts,
hiding from the demons,
praying for a tomorrow;
my home is neither here nor there,
not ahead or behind,
not without or within,
my home is in a land far away,
a whisper on the howling wind,
a flicker in the candlelight glow;
close your eyes and it is forever gone;
my home is nothing,
my home is everything,
my home is all there is.
.
.

Out in the Wasteland


Is it possible to write
and still maintain integrity,
or am I only fooling myself?
do people really want to hear
mysterious confessions
hidden deep within
crazed, carnivorous caverns?
lost fantasies
beyond moral redemption;
who cares?
you want drama?
you want unspoken promises?
you want flesh-filled, flailing
among pieces of uncontrollable stench?
you want madness in the shape of art?
I hear they’re having a sale at Wal-Mart;
questions, questions, questions,
searching, searching, searching,
one surprise after another,
most never get past the door,
some barely hear the answers,
others quietly bury their head
in the burning, sinking sand,
then there are the rest;
sleeping,
eating,
shitting,
locked-up alone
in silent solitude,
never making a sound,
never giving a clue;
dying without a chance;
that’s how it is
out here in the wasteland,
the price
of doing business;
the cost no one
can afford.
.
.

Confessions of a Mad Poet


He writes so eloquently,
with all the proper provenance,
all the MFA’s and PhD’s,
yet reading his work
is like running on a treadmill,
no matter how much effort you put into it;
you always end up
right where you began.
I suppose at one time it was different,
prior to the formal training and academic nonsense,
with all the self-proclaimed knowledge
and appearance of superiority,
I’m sure the words flowed natural and free then,
taking the reader on a journey
into never before seen, far-away lands;
but then the education got in the way.

I have tried all the natural highs,
all the mind expanding techniques
and self-promoting exercises,
all the little tricks of the trade;
alcohol works the best.

Sometimes I almost forget,
but then a song comes
on the radio,
an old video clip is played,
something is said,
and like tiny bubbles
in a bubble machine,
memories rise,
it all comes back;
the loneliness,
the isolation,
the sadness,
the darkness,
all night diners,
coffee and eggs
at 3 in the morning,
oncoming headlights,
the empty road,
the feeling of being unlike
everything and everyone,
the searching,
the attraction to
dark and mysterious things,
endless shots of whiskey,
never satisfied,
never enough,
always wanting more,
more, more,
standing at the edge of nothing,
peering into it’s oblivious perfection,
breathing deep
the intoxicating scent,
understanding the futility,
seeing through the myth,
fighting back the inevitable.

Sometimes the strangeness
became overwhelming,
all the differences,
the inner silence,
the unspoken words,
it’s a miracle
I never became a serial killer,
a deranged lunatic,
hiding out in public places,
waiting for a single nod,
a lone wink,
singular acknowledgement;
silent peace.

Yes, sometimes I almost forget,
but not quite,
it has been such a long time,
but it was never about fortune
or fame,
not about store bought
hypocrisy or witty,
tongue twisting words,
riding on the coattails
of expensive, inconsequential degrees,
complete with lifetime supplies
of picture-perfect, post-card images,
Vermont farms,
summers on the Cape;
it was so much more.
All I ever wanted
was to know that
somebody was listening,
someone saw through
the technical difficulties,
past the political correctness,
beyond incorrect commas
or questionable capitalization,
seeing something more than
paper and ink,
seeing the life
beating within the pages
of endless, mind-numbing sentences,
someone who could grasp the treasure
buried beneath the trash,
all I ever wanted is the same thing
every mad, raving, delusional, twisted
scum sucking, self-pitying poet wants;
to be heard.

I gave them passion,
but they only wanted bullshit,
I gave them agony and defeat,
but they only wanted bullshit,
I tried love,
I tried hate,
I tried darkness,
I tried light;
but they only wanted bullshit;
bullshit,
bullshit,
bullshit,
words to soothe
their bullshit minds,
pictures to fill
their bullshit lives,
paper with which to wipe
their bullshit asses;
self-made bullshit titles,
hiding behind unknown
bullshit presses
ending in ‘ville’
or ‘stanley’,
new paradigms,
publishing for the masses;
bullshit,
bullshit,
bullshit.

We are hanging on,
everyone of us,
waiting for just the
right moment,
ready to leap
whenever the chance
presents itself;
we are all hanging on.

They say death is cruel,
but usually it brings
hidden blessings,
when life no longer nourishes,
when words are not enough,
even non-educated fools
can understand the basics,
it does not require
above average intelligence,
it is not a learned affair;
it is something so much
more.
.
.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Past Due


Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come you who are blessed by my father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’ Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you? The King will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine you did for me.’ Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’ They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you? He will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’                                                                                                Matthew 25:34-46

now it begins;
the time arrives at last,
no more excuses,
no more pretending,
no more room for denial;
you watched as my children
lay dying,
broken and bleeding,
naked and alone,
crying out for justice and mercy,
you smiled as I suffered,
you laughed while I was beaten,
you turned your backs
as I slowly starved,
your pursuit of pleasure and
perpetual comfort made
you soft and weak,
your greed has crushed you,
your delusions of grandeur
and self-importance have
blinded you,
your lack of understanding
and compassion has sealed
your fate,
your denial of truth has
damned you,
your destruction is assured,
your chosen leaders
have abandoned you to the
grave;
now it begins;
your time has come O Babylon;
payment is past due.
.
.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

nothing is as effective as defeat -Charles Bukowski


always carry a notebook with you
wherever you go, he said,
and don’t drink too much, drinking dulls
the sensibilities,
attend readings, note breath pauses,
and when you read
always understate
underplay, the crowd is smarter than you
might think,
and when you write something
don’t send it out right away,
put it in a drawer for two weeks,
then take it out and look
at it, and revise, revise,
REVISE again and again,
tighten lines like bolts holding the span
of a 5 mile bridge,
and keep a notebook by your bed,
you will get thoughts during the night
and these thoughts will vanish and be wasted
unless you notate them.
and don’t drink, any fool can
drink, we are men of
letters.

for a guy who couldn’t write at all
he was about like the rest
of them: he could sure
talk about
it.
Charles Bukowski - from: Play The Piano Drunk Like A Percussion Instrument Until The Fingers Bleed A Bit

Eileen


I wrote this almost 30 years ago, at the birth of my youngest daughter.

I held you
in those first few moments,
as your skin changed colors
from purple to white,
and wrinkles of youth
gave way to fresh new skin
of old age,
trembling
I held you tight,
and you were none to happy,
for you had traveled
quite a long journey,
so it was alright,
I hoped
that you wouldn't be sorry
that you came
to this strange land,
full of strangers
and even stranger habits,
that someday
you might even thank me
for having been there,
although deep inside
I knew that would never be,
for I had never said thanks
even once myself,
ah but a least
you were not alone,
we gave you a top 40 name,
which must have mean’t something
to all the disc jockeys across the land,
your arrival was well heralded,
and it was most definitely
worth the wait,
of course that was just my opinion,
I did the easy part,
but I’m sure
that the feeling is shared
by all concerned,
especially the one
who provided
your port of entry,
although at the time
it was a very painful
touchdown;
I was amazed,
but then
I frequently am.
.
.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Perfect Lives


Wouldn’t it be great,
if all the people
with all the answers
simply gave them away,
then everybody would know,
everybody could be
successful and wealthy,
satisfied and happy,
living perfect lives,
with perfect children,
perfect spouses,
perfect pets,
perfect relationships,
perfect physical condition,
perfect hair and teeth;
yeah, wouldn’t that be great?

It makes me wonder;
would Jesus have charged
$19.95 for the truth?
writing books about His
latest revelation,
producing a cd series
on the newest prophecy,
getting rich off
knowledge and wisdom,
living in a mansion,
driving a Benz,
selling tickets to sold out performances
of ‘Secret Church’,
hiding His personal wealth behind
tax shelters and non-profit
organization status,
after all;
“ Do not muzzle an ox
while it is treading out the grain.”
.
.

Cost of Living


What is the cost of living?
sadness,
joy,
sorrow,
suffering,
pain,
hopelessness,
satisfaction,
fulfillment,
emptiness,
loneliness,
death;
decisions made,
consequences paid;
for every breath there is a cost.

Evil in the name of righteousness,
hypocrisy in the form of light,
of such things are men made,
by such things do they fall,
standing fast on truths
they understand not,
blinded by sanctimonious testimony,
lost on roads leading to nowhere;
who shall pay the debt?
.
.

A Time for Everything


There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain, a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak, a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.  What does the worker gain from his toil? I have seen the burden God has laid on men. He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end. I know that there is nothing better for men than to be happy and do good while they live. That everyone may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all his toil – this is the gift of God. I know that everything God does will endure forever; nothing can be added to it and nothing taken from it. God does it so that men will revere him
Ecclesiastes 3:1-14
No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels or demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.                                                                                                   Romans 8:37-38
In the early morning silence
You softly speak,
revealing mysteries and truths
I cannot fathom,
surpassing all my understanding,
that Your ways are not my ways,
that Your thoughts are not my thoughts,
that You are the vine
and I am just the branch,
that all my ideas,
all my words,
are nothing without You..
There is a time for everything,
a time to be born,
a time to die,
everything You do
endures forever,
nothing can be added to it,
nothing can be taken from it,
death does not end it;
nothing shall separate us
from Your love.
.
.

She Doesn't Need Anybody


She doesn't need you,
she doesn't need me,
she doesn't need anybody,
never has,
never will;
but still;
she hesitates for just a moment,
remembering a long forgotten
touch,
an embrace,
a kiss,
innocent and sweet,
tender and pure,
warm and moist,
it was the last time
she felt love,
it was the last time
she felt alive.

The moment passes,
never to return,
nothing speaks like silence;
she doesn’t need anybody;
and you love her
even more.
.
.

If These Hills Could Talk


If these hills could talk,
what tales they might tell;
moonlit nights,
modified muscle cars,
racing down winding
mountain roads,
delivering fresh batches
of weekly ‘shine’
to bars and honky-tonks
across the Roanoke Valley,
missing revenuers,
never to be seen again,
tucked safely in isolated
gullies and ravines,
their rotting bones
all that is left,
camouflaged fields of
the new ‘cash crop’,
growing undisturbed until
ready for market,
the armies of Grant and Lee,
flanking and counter-flanking,
trying to gain the higher ground,
each seeking an advantage,
the dead from forays
and undocumented skirmishes,
slowly dissolving into the
rocks and clay,
providing food for scavengers
and worms,
ancient rock altars,
built upon solitary ridges,
overlooking valleys far below,
shameful family secrets,
locked away for more generations
than anyone can remember,
silence the unspoken code;
if these hills could only talk.

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Things Aren't Always What They Seem


I knew this dancer once,
she used to strip down on Waikiki
at this topless place on Kalakala avenue,
her name was Lisa,
half Filipino, half Chinese,
a very nice mix,
she had a great body,
nice tits, fantastic ass,
I used to get ripped and hang around,
waiting for her after the show,
I was riding a Harley then,
79 Lowrider,
black with lots of chrome,
I loved that damn machine,
we’d ride off into the Hawaiian night,
cruise around the island
until the morning sun came up,
stopping every now and then
on an empty beach
to take a hit of coke (she always had the best coke),
run our tongues down each others throats,
then she’d take me in her mouth,
with the waves washing up on the beach,
I never understood why
she would never let me do anything
besides play with those fantastic tits,
but when you’re about to cum
in the mouth of a beautiful stripper,
on an isolated Hawaiian ocean beach,
with the stars overhead,
after snorting great coke;
you don’t ask to many questions.

It was a nice arrangement,
very nice indeed,
then I had to go and ask her out
on a real date,
you know, dinner, dancing (respectable) stuff,
it was too much for her,
she said it was the nicest thing
anybody had ever done,
she started crying,
said she wanted me to know something first,
seeing as how we were about to be
a real boyfriend and girlfriend,
she said things weren’t exactly as they seemed,
she explained about hormones and an operation,
and how it felt being trapped until
gradually it sunk in.

Lisa and I never did have that date,
but you know what,
just between you and me,
I wish I had never asked her in the first place,
because if I hadn’t,
she never would have felt the need
to tell me about her big secret,
and we could have kept on
riding around the island after her shows,
but what really pisses me off,
in spite of it all,
if I’m really honest with myself,
which I’m usually not
when it comes to this subject;
she gave the best damn head
I ever had.
.
.

this too shall pass


Gibbons is the greatest there ever was,
Morrison said it better than all the rest,
Bukowski was the king;
this too shall pass.

like a river it flows,
on and on,
from here to there,
over before it ever
had a chance
to begin,
in the morning
you were gone,
never to return,
your taste still fresh,
your touch
lingering
on the wind,
your smell like
lilacs on a warm
spring day.

the last breath is breathed,
memories slowly die,
laughter gives way to silence,
the final journey awaits,
the empty darkness looms
ahead;
Gibbons is the greatest there ever was,
Morrison said it better than all the rest,
Bukowski was the king;
this too shall pass.
.
.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

The New 'Massahs'


America has always been about color;
not black, not white,
not brown, not yellow;
America has always been about color.
Slavery was never about race
or white supremacy,
slavery has always been about economics,
pure and simple,
using black men just made it feasible,
gave it a sort of justified nobility,
did skin color matter to the Romans
when they enslaved conquered nations?
did it matter to African chiefs and sultans who
enslaved their own people,
then sold them to white slave traders?
do you really think plantation owners cared
about the skin color of their cheap,
disposable work force?
don’t you think they would have used
poor, uneducated whites and saved all those costs of traveling
half-way around the world
if they could have gotten away with it?
but the truth is they couldn’t,
so they justified it with black men
brought from the dark continent of Africa;
after all, they weren’t real men
were they?
Slavery has never been about race
or the color of skin,
it has always been about something
much deeper,
it has always been about those who have,
taking from those who have not,
fear of homelessness and starvation
has replaced bullwhips and chains,
fear of losing what little one has
provides the new slaves of choice,
who patiently wait for crumbs
from the ‘massahs’ table.

The new ‘massahs’ come in all colors
but they all have one color in common;
green is the color
of true power and domination,
green is the color of the new ‘massah’;
but then it was all along,
wasn’t it?
America has always been about color.
.
.

Friday, September 28, 2012

Right and Wrong


Everyone must submit himself to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established. The authorities that exist have been established by God. Consequently he who rebels against the authority is rebelling against what God has instituted, and those who do so will bring judgment on themselves.   Romans 13:1-2
In America being poor is a death sentence,
in America your pocket book determines
the level of respect you receive;
in America you either love it or leave it.

Sometimes it is forgotten
that this nation was founded by people
who didn’t ‘love’ it,
but instead of leaving they fought
a violent and bloody war for independence,
or how a hundred years later
the nation was torn in two as brother
fought brother because one side
didn’t ‘love’ it,
it makes me wonder just who
the real patriots are,
those blindly accepting whatever is thrown at them,
by a government growing increasingly powerful and intrusive,
or those who question every policy and decision,
and to be perfectly honest;
I don’t care one way or the other.

This nation and this government are only
a result of what they are allowed to be,
by a God who created all things,
it does not have any more power, wealth or wisdom
than Rome or Greece or any of the other
great civilizations before it;
this nation exists only because
God willed it to exist.

In colonial days there were preachers
who stood up in their pulpits and declared
that those who didn’t ‘love’ being a British colony
should just leave,
many of the religious leaders of the day
branded Washington and other leaders of the revolution
as criminals and traitors,
but Washington and the revolutionaries won,
and winners not losers write history,
the truth is they won
because that was God’s will,
plain and simple,
so be careful who you call a criminal,
or who you tell to love it or leave it,
because you just might be
on the wrong side of God’s will,
unless you presume to know more
than God himself.

So don’t get caught up in who is right
and who is wrong,
try not to take sides
in the affairs of men at all,
seek the will of the Lord first
and trust in Him,
without leaning to your own understanding,
and remember His command for us all:

As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Now remain in my love. If you obey my commands, you will remain in my love, just as I have obeyed my Father’s commands and remain in his love. I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete. My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. You are my friends if you do what I command. I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead I have called you friends, for everything I have learned from my Father I have made known to you. You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you to go and bear fruit – fruit that will last. Then the Father will give you whatever you ask in my name. This is my command: Love each other.                                    John 15: 9-17

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